


My Ada, My Naneth, My Sister and Other Animals

by taithel (telemachus), telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [56]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Animals, Avari, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Growing Up, Lots of animals, Really lots of animals, Taithel's story, Wandering elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/taithel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taithel (a Silvan born in Ithilien) journeys East, and changes, slowly.</p><p>He likes animals.</p><p>(Subsidiary story to Red Star Rising & Sunrise in the Fall)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Taithel is tall – but he has never felt it. Graceful, and charming – in his own way. He has never felt that either. It isn’t easy having a renowned father. 

Instead, all he ever feels is – ordinary, a bit dull. He doesn’t see that his hair – not the fiery red he might have inherited – is glossy, the autumn colour of a conker, burnished bronze with hints of red streaking through. His eyes are kind, and if he doesn’t always see to the heart of every problem, every person – maybe he is easier to like for that. 

Like all his people, he wears the colours of the forest, greens, browns – but again in that search for anonymity that only the children of the notorious know, he steers towards the brown, the dull green of late summer, and away from spring colours. In conversation, he long ago learnt to be the one who listens, who agrees – or sometimes disagrees – quietly, soothing almost, rarely asserting his own thoughts – until someone asks him about a topic he is passionate on. Then, and only then, his hereditary shows, as he stands tall, uses his hands to explain, to carry his listeners with him, to impart knowledge – to overwhelm with facts – until he suddenly realises how many people are hanging on his words, and he becomes the shy one, the youngest, the good, quiet child again; his words dry up and his hands fall still.

Today, however, today he is not talking, he is silent as they ride away. It is the first time he will travel so far, the first time he has – any of them have – ventured in this direction. It will be the first time he has ever – ever – in all his years – been in a place his father is not.

Now it comes to it, he isn’t sure it is a good idea. Now it comes to it, he would rather not leave. Oh he wants to see the animals, the sights, the far-off lands that are opening up now – but – inside, he would rather – far rather – hear his father say,

“Don’t go, ion-nin, please – I will miss you.”

He doesn’t know Caradhil has been biting his teeth shut on those words for every minute of every day since their plans were announced.

As he rides away with his mother – and, he reminds himself, if he stayed, Meieriel would be without either of her children – but then, since they became adults, she has said it is their choice, she does not expect them to stay with her, or with their father – they must do as they wish – but as they ride away – he keeps his head up, straight, his eyes facing the lands they go to, his thoughts on the sights they will see.

He doesn’t feel the eyes gazing after him, locked onto him until he is out of sight. He doesn’t know how long his father stands, longing to hold him again, until his sister comes to him, urges him away, distracts him with talk, with work, as there is always work to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

The lands are, to begin with, not very different from home. Not different enough.

There are not the changes he hoped to see, the new plants his mother spoke of with such longing, the animals he hoped to encounter – and though he knew it was foolish, there was a part of Taithel that still, still, he laughs inside, at his age, hoped to see an oliphaunt, or some of those other beasts they have heard tell of. He reminds himself, it is to be a long journey. There will be time for such things.

Bound to be.

You cannot expect to see everything within a few days, or even weeks of travelling.

But – he did.

He thought – if he thought at all – and now he begins to wonder whether he did think, or whether this whole expedition is an elfling’s reaction to a bossy elder sister saying no, do not be ridiculous, Taithel, you are not one to travel like that – he thought it would be a few days only before the lands began to change and then – then a few weeks – maybe months – would be enough.

Even as all the preparations were made, even as his mother and the other elves discussed provisions, and weapons, and equipment, and whether to leave stores on the outward journey to enable a speedier return home in case of need – he did not really listen, did not really think. He made notes about the animals he hopes to see, he prepared his own books to sketch and record anything new he discovers, but – it is only now as the weeks become months, and the pace of the horses is constant, the land changing slowly around them, so slowly, that he begins to understand fully – they are not on a swift “there and back again” journey. This is the movement of elves as elves can be, years wandering, as the Grey Company of dissenting Noldor wandered so long, this is a journey with a beginning but perhaps no end.

And somewhere inside, the elfling that never really grew up wails – but if Ada knew – if he knew this is how it would be – how long I would be gone – why did he let me go? 

And a nasty, despicable part of himself answers – because Tegylwen stayed. You know that.

In which he does his father a great injustice, and indeed, he knows it. But the suspicion lingers on.

The lands do change, the plants gradually turn from the familiar herbs and grasses to spices he has always considered exotic, the trees change from leafy and welcoming to sparse, restrained growth, which have a song so odd – almost atonal to Taithel’s mind – that it is many days before even his mother begins to appreciate it. And it is long since he understood that there are few elves, even among their Silvans, who care for trees and plants as his mother does. He thinks this, as he watches her lean against one of these new, odd trees, as she lets her song join it, as she begins to learn its ways, and he remembers – it must be one of his earliest memories – one of the first times he thought of his parents as anything other than simply – Naneth and Ada – one of the first times he began to perceive there was anything unusual about his family – he remembers seeing her do so with a tree that was sickly, trying to understand what could be done, why nothing flourished in that spot. He cannot now remember why he wanted her, but he remembers knowing even then that he must wait until she was done. Remembers that afterwards his sister, his bossy but loving sister, sighed as she sorted out whatever it was that he had done foolishly while waiting, and she told him – if it is urgent, ask Ada. If it is not, wait. But do not ever let Ada know you waited on his work – Naneth expects us to understand, and wait, but Ada – Ada would weep to know we see him busy and wait.

He thinks of this now, and he puzzles again about the contradiction there. If it would make Ada weep to know that, then why do we do it – why did we do it? 

He is not sure, but – they always did, once they were old enough to begin to understand.

So many things peculiar about their family. 

Enough.

This journey is about animals – for Taithel, anyway – and while his mother is listening to trees – he can take the opportunity to leave his horse with the others, and go, as he likes to, crawling into the undergrowth, into the miniature world he has long been intrigued by, watching the insects, the spiders, the busy life of all these tiny beings.

And finding – these are already changed from those he knows at home – even as there are no longer the familiar deer, the reds and fallows he grew up watching and eating. Now, here, the deer are quite different. Here, the deer are thinner, more – delicate, their horns so much longer, and they are indeed horns, horns like a goat has, two distinct horns, not the spread of antlers normal to the elves. They move – differently – somehow. More carefully, more graceful. It occurs to Taithel that these deer are almost – elven – to the others’ mortal bulk . 

The deer are so different already. How much more will the animals change as they journey on?

He has taken time to watch them, to sketch them, to note the differences in bones, in horns, in meat and skin. 

The other elves think him – curious. He smiled when they said it, remembering his father saying that he was considered a curious elf for his interest in other, mortal, ways of life. Well, he, Taithel, is no ruler, no constructor of realms – but – he is interested in animals. Always has been.

As he waits, still and quiet, for the insect life around him to become busy once more, open to his gaze, he lets himself recall the most surprising encounter so far.

It is long since he became used to cats – prince Legolas has a fondness for them – and they are useful enough in keeping down the number of rodents. There have been cats in elvish Ithilien these many years – and though his father has never really become fond of them, he has seen how Legolas loves them, and, Taithel knows, how much he, Taithel enjoys the company of any animal – and has resigned himself to their presence. 

“They please you, they please my prince, they work for their living – and, ion-nin, if they also allow my lord Gimli to feel he has gained a victory over me – then that gives me a bargaining chip in our next encounter. My lord Gimli is a cunning dwarf in many ways, but he has no concept, it seems to me, of the things I would endure to please you – and be very sure you tell him not. Those cats of which you are so fond buy me many easy agreements from that dwarf.”

But – no-one had told him – that only a few weeks journey south of Ithilien there are – big cats. Long and lean, a pale sand colour, but with dark spots, and fast – so fast – now they are elven-cats. Beautiful. He would dearly like to take his father one of those. That would be a kingly gift. Surely.

Not that his father is a king. Taithel sighs, he has never really understood that. His father rules, his father works, it is an open secret that his sister will inherit – should there be need – his father’s power. Yet – his father is, apparently, not a king. If one should ever hint otherwise – then his father will be angry as his father is rarely angry. Caradhil is no king, Caradhil acknowledges only one king of the elves.

Anyway, he shrugs, that need not concern him here. Here, there are neither – deer – nor – cats – he wishes it were possible to name these creatures, but – he does not have the confidence to do so. 

Here there are insects. Myriads of them.

He watches, and he finds so many colours, so many just very slightly different from the ones he knows.

Then.

Oh then.

Then there comes one – not an insect, too big – but – like them it is hairless, with jointed legs, and a tail it carries curled high over its back. No antennae, but claws – claws like – like – what were those strange sea-creatures? They came in among a load of cloth, brought upriver from the sea, they were – almost like spiders – they had too many legs, and they scuttled – but sideways, always sideways. None of them had seen them before, none knew what to make of them.

That was the first time his father turned to him, the first time he was given responsibility, 

“Keep them safe, alive, see what they will eat, see what they do,” he was told, “ion-nin, I am trusting you. I do not want these – whatever they are – to escape, but I want to know what they are and what they do. Care for them, and we will ask our prince’s dwarf – he claims to know much of other lands – and when he does not recognise them, I will have to find another way to discover what they are.”

Only – to his father’s disappointment – Gimli had recognised them. He had not seen them before, not living, but he knew they were – what was it – crabs. They were harmless, good eating, he said.

Typical dwarf, Taithel thinks, always it is about – fighting or eating. Those crabs were sweet. Friendly. Lived several years, in the end, with care.

So.

These things – they are not crabs, they cannot need water, or they would not live here, here where it is so dry – but – they are similar. The claws, the armour on them. He watches, fascinated, as they seem to dance together – courting he supposes – unlike many elves, Taithel has learnt enough from all the animals he has watched over the years to have a basic understanding of courtship and mating – at least, for animals. He has not really thought how it might apply to elves, only that it presumably does. The oddity of his own family prevents him believing love is sufficient, or indeed, necessary.

Anyway. These – whatever they are – they dance. They kill insects – one kills a small mouse – with their claws. And eat them. 

He wonders about the tails. They are almost bulbous at the end – and they carry them – they seem to carry them – threateningly. 

There is a point.

He wonders – could it be that such pretty creatures might sting? As so many insects do?

Fortunately he is not foolish enough to try to experiment. A scorpion sting – for that is what these are – might not prove fatal to an elf. But it is unlikely to be pleasant.

They are beautiful creatures though.

Fascinating.

And sketching them, and watching, and making notes, and – and losing himself completely, as only elves can do, so that it is near two months before he comes back to the group, and they – they are not concerned for they have known him so long, they know how he is.

At that moment, Taithel is glad it is his mother he journeys with. 

Caradhil would be furious with him for losing track of time, for being unable to hear the song, for not combing these many nights, for making him worry, for – for being Taithel.

Meieriel – laughs.

“You are indeed my son,” she says, and the other elves cannot but smile and pretend they mind not waiting for him, “if something is interesting, it is interesting. We are elves, we need not hurry, need not conform to mortal time,” she smiles at him, that smile that is a collusion between them, “and since neither your father nor your sister is here to organise us, we can simply – wander – or not – at our own pace.”

Taithel smiles back, their conspiracy as thick as ever it was, and he only lets himself think of the pleasure of being treated as an intelligent adult, does not let himself admit there is a tiny part of him – that overprotected elfling perhaps – that rather misses his father’s ever-watchful eyes.

He is nearly seventy. If he cannot stand on his own feet now, when will he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals :  
> antelope  
> cheetahs  
> scorpion.


	3. Chapter 3

Taithel does not make the mistake of trying to interest the other elves in his sketches of insects, nor of talking about the – whatever they were – with their strange dances and high-held tails. He long ago learnt that only the most – appealing – creatures interest elves. 

And even then – not so very much.

If you cannot eat it, and it cannot sing to you or with you, and it is not a tree, then most Silvans are not awfully keen to hear much about it. A short description, a picture perhaps, if it is of pleasing form, a story or two about its ways – nothing more. 

As for the speculation he cannot help – why are animals different in different places? Why are the deer here slighter and faster, what are the big cats doing – why are there none at home? As for that – to most elves, “because Eru wills it” is enough of an answer .

For Taithel – it is not. Yes, Eru wills it, he is not so strange an elf as to question that, but – why? For surely, just as his father orders nothing in Ithilien without a reason, Eru would not order anything in the wider world without a reason. So – why go to the trouble of creating many deer when one would do?

Perhaps if he thinks enough, he will be able to understand.

 

 

 

 

The journey continues.

They cross a river, and now, apparently, they are truly in a new land. Taithel is not one to study maps, not really, and he has not fully paid attention – it is news to him that they were not out of the realm of Gondor these last months. He thought when they crossed the river that took them out of Ithilien, they were no longer in Gondor. It seems not, they were merely in South Gondor. 

This – this is Khand.

So they tell him.

He shrugs, he cares not. It is a dry and hot land. There are even fewer, scrubbier bushes. 

He wonders, idly, at his mother that she should have chosen a route with such arid conditions if she really wanted to see plants. When they are alone, riding apart from the others, he says this, and she looks at him and sighs.

“Oh ion-nin,” she says, “think. Think about something other than animals for once. Try and see our home on a map, at the centre. North – above it – lie the Brown Lands, and the Old Forest, Eryn Lasgalen. Those parts are known – we will perhaps return through the Brown Lands, but – they are known. West – left – lies Gondor, Rohan, all those places. East – right – lies the Shadowed Land – we have no desire to go there. That leaves South. And then – then we will turn East and North, round in a great circle.”

She falls silent, and he looks at her, grateful to have this chance to ask,

“But – why did we not go West? They are known lands, but not to us, and – and there are places that way we do not know by reputation even.”

She wrinkles her nose,

“We know enough. And, indeed, for many leagues they know of us. We would be Legolas’ elves, all that way. I, for one, am tired of being Legolas’ elf, Thranduil’s elf. I am ready to be – Silvans who do not answer to Sindar rulers.”

Their eyes meet, and she adds, 

“No, I did not say that part to your father. It is not a sentiment Caradhil would ever understand. But – he understood the part about wanting to learn of lands we had not encountered before.”

Taithel nods, and then, he cannot help it, he asks,

“We will go home, Naneth, eventually?”

She meets his eyes, with the level gaze she always uses when she is about to tell him something she thinks he will not like,

“Those of us who wish to will, yes. In time. You know this, ion-nin, never, never have I lied to you, we always planned that those who wish to will find their way home, and those who do not, shall not. As for eventually – elves have time – your father and sister will not leave their colony. The kings of men will change, once, twice, maybe a third time, but – you will return to them.”

“And Ada will be waiting, he will want to hear all about it.” Taithel blushes, to hear himself sound so young, “I mean – the lands – the different ways of living, ruling – we may even have new ideas for him.”

Meieriel smiles, and agrees.

It is only much later that Taithel realises she has not promised to return herself.

 

 

 

There are some strange animals drinking at the river when they cross. Without thinking, Taithel begins to sketch them, to note down what he can about them – then – he realises they are being led by Men. Before he can gesture, ask, wonder whether they should speak, others have also seen.

Tuluslas and Finauriel are the two who approach them – they are the elves who know most words in the most languages of Men – there is a hope that they will be able to find words in common.

The rest lounge, comfortable in such a rocky landscape as only elves can be. After a while, it becomes clear the two will be some time,

“Probably they have to eat with the Men,”  
“Talk, break bread,”  
“And so on, drink.”

The group laughs. Good wishes to any Men who try to out drink those two.

“We had best repack ourselves – the ground from here is not suitable for horses. We said we would send ours home,” Meieriel reminds them, and the work begins. There is no hurry, there is much laughter and singing over it – and then – Cunaglar speaks,

“The group may know already – Finathol and I – we wish to comb together,”

“You have been – ”  
“ – endlessly –“  
“ – we all hear you,” but the group is affectionate in their teasing,

Cunaglar flushes to his eartips, “Yes, well, we wish to take vows, and – and return. I know the plan was to send the horses alone, but – we will take them – “

“ – if that pleases you, Meieriel?” Finathol finishes, and then, “and if there are any who also wish to return – they may come with us.”

There is silence a moment, and the group looks from one to another. Do any of them wish to return?

No.

It seems not.

Finathol continues, “If any wish to send a message home – we could take that also?”

Meieriel sits to write an account of what they have seen so far, what they have discovered, and is helped by many elves who do not wish – or are unable – to write their own words. All those born in Ithilien have learnt to read and write, but many of these elves are from the Old Forest – the Forest where only a few were considered to need such skills. Taithel sits to write also – he knows his father will expect to hear from him – and finds – the words do not come easily to him. Words rarely come easily to Taithel.

In the end, he stumbles his way through an account of the animals they have seen – which will at least reassure Caradhil he is unchanged – and that he misses home. 

_Yet,_ he writes, _I find I need to continue on, to see whatever else there is to see, Ada, and I hope you do not mind that I do not hurry back. I will come home, when there is no more journeying to do, I will come home. I miss you, and my sister; touch ears for me, comb and think of me, as I comb and think of you._

He hopes that is enough. 

Then, as he reads it over, he finds he need add,

_I wish you could write to me also. I love you, Ada, and I will come home._

He wonders what his father will think when he reads it. Will he be interested in all the stories, the sights, the animals?

Perhaps.

But Taithel is not a fool.

He knows the only line his father will really care about is the last one.

 

 

 

Tuluslas and Finauriel come back in time to add their own messages. Tuluslas is one who was born in Ithilien, and he writes his own letter, as all Ithilien elflings learn to do. Finauriel, growing up in Mirkwood, as it then was, has never learnt such arts, and seems not to feel the lack.

“The Men – they are Khandish – they say we may travel with them if we wish a while, exchange stories and songs – they seem pleasant enough,” she pauses, and looks at Meieriel, “at least, for Men. Besides, they are few, and we are many, we are armed, we are elves. They seem, in honesty, they seem daunted by the idea of elves. I think there are perhaps different tales of our people in these lands.”

Meieriel nods slowly, and Taithel sees this is something she has thought on, “I suspect – they will have heard only of fighting elves, from the wars, the great wars, for Khand – too often Khand was forced to fight for those who oppressed them. Unless they have their own elves – but they – they will be either Silvans, Silvans with no Sindar or Avari – and if anything be more dangerous than Silvans of the Old Forest, as it was in the days of darkness, it is Silvans free of Sindar restraint and Avari, who know no restraint at all, so it is said.”

The group is intrigued.

“Will we meet such elves?”  
“What can it be like,”  
“Not to answer to guiding Sindar,”  
“Not even in thought, as we of Ithilien do,”  
“To be Silvan through and through,”  
“Or to be – to be Avari?”  
“What songs we shall have to learn from them!”

And that is the thought of all.

New elvish songs.

What more could they ask?

All but Taithel.

Taithel wishes to see animals.

Not elves.

Not more word-skilled, enigmatic, clever elves.


	4. Chapter 4

The journey continues, and this time they travel with these Men. 

Taithel leaves speaking to them to those who are interested, those who are skilled with languages. He – he is busy trying to learn about these strange, humped animals. They are lead, by the Men, they wear harness, as he has seen Men’s horses wear, and they seem to carry burdens – so perhaps – they are like horses? Tamed, used, and, one would think, like to respond to the song and speech of elves – for surely language would be not a problem? At least, he has heard that horses will respond to elves, whatever language their masters speak – he remembers the horses of Rohan which Legolas seems always to have. 

These animals – they may understand him, or they may not, but they certainly do not respond, do not seem friendly, though he does not think their intent is evil, simply – they care not for him, or the other elves, or, he begins to think, their Men. They care simply for themselves, and allow the Men to lead them around because – because it is an easy life. 

Tuluslas drops back to speak with him, as they walk through this dry land,

“I am told, and I thought you might wish to know,” he begins, for he is the elf who has spoken most with these Men, and all know how Taithel is, “I am told these – khamels – at least, I think that is the correct form of their word – these khamels are interesting creatures. They are at home in these deserts – they need little water, and can drink much at one time, storing it somehow for days – I suppose in those humps. They are able to cross sand, they are fast and strong, but – they have little to recommend them in their natures,” he smiles, and Taithel smiles back, for this is interesting, and he is grateful to Tuluslas for talking to him, “they are, apparently, truculent, disagreeable, and – likely to kick those they do not know,” he shrugs, “and so – so they are not suitable for us, I think. Yet – without them – we will not be able to cross the desert, so far it is, the Men say. Indeed, listening, I think they may be right. I think – even for elves – it might be too far, with too little water, and too much heat. I – I am sorry, pen-neth.”

Taithel is almost seventy. Pen-neth? No. But of course, Tuluslas has known him since he was born, and while the gap between their ages is not much to elves, it is enough that for long it mattered to Tuluslas to be the elder. 

Now – it is just habit.

 

 

 

 

So. They will not be able to go so far as he had hoped.

There will be no oliphaunts.

He understands, Taithel is not stupid, a desert – a desert as big as this one – it is not possible to cross. At least, it might be, with enough elves, enough preparation, enough reason – and a traitorous part of him thinks – Ada could manage it. Ada could make his elves do this, if he said it was wise, they would believe him, they would follow him. He is honest enough to add – but he would not, not unless there was true need – and that is why they trust him. 

So. No oliphaunts.

He swallows again, reluctant to give in to disappointment even though he is alone, even though it has been a long-held dream, to see a herd, a proper herd of oliphaunts, in the land they come from, roaming as they are meant to, not merely that small family which he has watched so many times in Ithilien. That straggling group of survivors, and now, as an adult, he wonders how long they will manage to eke out a living there, how they have managed until now – and suddenly – suddenly he understands – as though someone has explained it to him – like all else in elvish Ithilien, they exist by the will of Caradhil. Oh Ada, Taithel thinks, is this your own sentimental side showing, was this to amuse your prince – or did you this for me? 

Anyway.

No oliphaunts. But – there will be other things. 

 

 

 

Indeed. 

That evening, Taithel wanders off, as Taithel does, and in sitting silently, for with all the song knocked out of him by the news that he will not meet an oliphaunt he has not even to try to be silent, to sing in a way that animals will find pleasing, in sitting silently, he hears the most unexpected sound.

It is not quite that of a barking dog – he knows about dogs, Caradhil has refused to have dogs in elvish Ithilien, but Taithel has met them in the lands of Men – but that is the most similar sound he can recall. Gradually, as the sun begins to drop, as the desert becomes still and cooler – warm, but not with the blazing heat of day – there begin to be strange little yaps from all around . 

Taithel is an elf.

Whatever else, and he is unusual in many ways, he is an elf. He has perfect – more than perfect – vision, and hearing such that he can pinpoint the source of any sound. He is able to sit motionless, and listen, and wait, and know when these creatures become still and quiet and sleepy with the chill.

And then – then he moves, carefully, slowly, silently, using all the hunters skill he has, and – he picks up the creature.

It is a lizard, a strange lizard, almost flat, but wide, so very wide especially its tail, it cannot – surely – be agile and fast – yet – perhaps it need not be, here in the desert, he does not know. It is spotted, and its eyes – its eyes are so wide, so large, Taithel stares, and wonders, and the little creature blinks at him, and then – yes – it yaps. A sort of hissing yap. 

Taithel is entranced.

The little creature – he has not learnt its name – sits in his hand, and seems happy there, at least for a while. In Taithel’s experience, most animals will sit happily enough with a quiet or calm elf, or an elf that knows the type of song that they enjoy. Still, he would like to feed it, to know it better, and so – he sits, still and quiet, and waits, and watches, and after a time, it potters off, and then – it comes back. With some kind of – what is it – a moth perhaps – to eat, it comes back to him, to Taithel, and it sits, and eats, and – oh it is lovely.

And for a little while, Taithel forgets he will not see an oliphaunt herd.

 

 

 

 

The journey continues. Taithel’s lizard – as the other elves call it, however much he tries to explain it is not an ordinary lizard, it is something slightly different, see, it licks its eyes to clean them as no lizard does – and besides, it is not his, any more than any creature is, it simply – wishes to travel with him for a while – Taithel’s lizard comes with them, and seems happy, dozing hidden in his clothes all day, as they travel with these Men and their khamels, and then – then it comes out at night, while they sit beside the fires and talk, and comb and sing – and it looks for food, it brings moths back to sit and eat with him.

Taithel is very happy, very fond of it.

He is so happy, so fond, he does not notice the undercurrent of tension. The elves are not used to being among Men for so long – and the Men are certainly not used to elves. Particularly not to such very – harmless seeming elves. They begin to wonder – for all there are so many of them – these are not warlike creatures, they are so gentle, so soft-seeming – they do not appear to carry weapons, they do not raise their voices, nor use force or display of any kind to ensure their leader is obeyed – and to these Men, as to many others, the long hair, the braids, the smooth faces imply many things, many things which are not true.

Perhaps fortunately, before the tension can break, before words can be spoken or deeds done which would be hard to reverse, another party of elves is heard. Meieriel decides they will wait, speak to these of their own kind – however strange they are, they are Elves, they will have more in common with them than with these Men.

The Men, who are not bad, simply – confused by elves – shrug, and journey on. They have their own schedule, their own way of life – goods to trade, places to reach, homes and families to welcome them.

Taithel is a little confused when it is announced they will stop, wait here, not in one of the few green areas, but here, right here, in the desert. He had not thought any liked it here. but he does not question the will of the group, does not argue, does not try to impose his own thoughts on any – and Meieriel is not the only one to wonder how she and Caradhil came by such a sweet-natured son.

What the other elves fail to understand, is that there are animals here to observe, that Taithel has still his small, barking lizard, and so – what more could he ask of life? 

Here, even here in this parched land, there are creatures. Taithel is busy, sketching, watching, recording his thoughts, and, of course, planning how to tame one. Tuluslas sees his sketches, and, knowing him well, speaks of this,

“Penneth,” he begins, and again, Taithel resents the word, “your drawings are lovely. Best, perhaps, to content yourself with them? I do not think your mother will be too impressed if you try to tame a – whatever these are – desert rats .” 

Taithel bristles, “they are not true rats,” he says, defensively, “they are not mice either, they are themselves. Too big for a mouse, too small for a rat. And so many, so varied, in colour, in behaviour, in – even in whether they have a tail,” he holds up a hand, “I know what you are going to say, yes, they are like rats, like mice, they are – what is the word – rodents – that is the word Men use to mean either – but – they are not. They are fluffy, and friendly, and – truly Tuluslas, do you not think them enchanting?”

There is silence. Tuluslas shakes his head slowly,

“In truth, my friend – no. They simply look like fluffy rats to me. Rats which have not learnt to fear elves, and so are the greatest nuisance of all. Besides, do they not need the company of their own kind? Would it not be cruel to take one away?”

Taithel sighs, he supposes it is true.

Tuluslas sighs with relief. 

 

 

 

Prematurely, as it turns out.

Who would have thought there were so many – rodents – in a desert? Fat ones, almost tail-less ones, furry ones, very furry indeed ones, ones that are almost spherical when the wind blows out their fur, long-legged ones that jump, bristly ones, ones with crests of hair – all the elves like those – ones with hairy feet, and, most amusingly of all, ones with huge fat tails, who like to stand upright and shriek.

Taithel loves them all.

It is a long way across the desert.

The other elves – the new elves, the elves from these lands – are polite, greetings offered and returned, advice given, but no, they will not travel together. 

There is not, it turns out, much language in common – and the other elves seem not interested. They are self-contained, focused only on their group, their elflings, their journey. They do not wander for the sake of wandering, they move from food source to food source, from one meeting point to another, living only for the group, meeting other groups to exchange elves, to marry – to sing. That is all.

They are not easy to understand.

After they are gone, Meieriel seems lost in thought, and quiet. Tuluslas suggests to Taithel that perhaps a lizard would cheer her – it seems unlikely to him, but experience has taught him that sometimes, sometimes even when he is wrong, Naneth likes him to offer comfort. So he does.

She smiles, and places the lizard back in his hands, folding them around it, keeping it warm and held safe, as it likes.

“Ion-nin,” she sighs, “I thank you for the offer. But no. Only – think you that those elves would have stayed had your father been here to speak with them?”

For a moment Taithel is silent.

Of course they would, if Ada spoke to them, he thinks, no-one refuses Ada.

Then he blinks as another thought strikes him.

“They would not have understood him any better,” he says, slowly, for the thought of Caradhil speaking to no avail is strange, “they would only have heard his words through an interpreter, so – no. It would make no difference,” and then he sees the question she is really asking, and he is proud of himself for spotting it, “he would not be a better leader out here. Best to leave him where he is. This land – this exploring – is for us, not them.”

And when his mother takes his hand for a moment, he knows he has found the right words, even if she did not want his lizard.

The journey through the seemingly endless waste continues.

Fortunately, elves do not require much in the way of food, or water, or amusement. There are stars – and who knew how bright the stars would shine in such an empty place, such clear air – there is song, there is always song; they have combs, and all the time in the world. If Taithel wishes to stop and play with every form of rat that Eru created – well – why not?

They all have little whiffly noses, big eyes and long whiskers. They are all inquisitive, curious, friendly to elves, and – permanently hungry.

Taithel makes many friends.

He does not mean to tame them, to take them away from their homes, their families – but – sometimes – they come.

Tuluslas becomes – against his better judgement – fond of the jumping one. The day it chooses to ride perched on his shoulder rather than Taithel’s – he is quite unreasonably smug.

“He likes me better because I don’t have a nasty, crawly, barky lizard,” he says, and Taithel – Taithel reverts to an earlier self and pokes his tongue out in retaliation.

“He will come to me quick enough when he is hungry,” he says – but no – Tuluslas overcomes his dislike of pointy teeth enough even to feed his new little friend. 

Taithel finds a fox. It is a very charming fox, sand-coloured, with large ears and a fluffy tail. Tuluslas does not trust the fox, even when Taithel shows him it eats mainly insects, it has no wish to eat his little jumping friend . 

The other elves sigh, and praise the starlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals :
> 
> Barking gecko  
> Gerbil  
> Gundi, Fat-sand-rat, Jerboa, Fat-tailed-gerbil, Crested-rats, Hairy-footed-gerbil  
> Fennec Fox.


	5. Chapter 5

The grasslands are wide, and flat and empty.

At first.

Soon enough, with a little attention, Taithel finds lots of animals. First, and perhaps least expected, is another rat – this one huge. It is almost as big as a hobbit.

If a hobbit lay down and crawled about, that is.

The elves wonder if Men ever see it, or know about it, for it only seems to come out at night – and so quiet, so stealthy it is that it seems to them it would be easy for it to go unnoticed, to sneak past Men, dull-witted and unobservant as they are. 

Taithel is intrigued that this one should be so much bigger than any other. Perhaps because there is more food here, he thinks. But – he is not – definitely not – the whole group is sure of this – not going to be making friends with any of these.

An elf lives by the will of the group.

No giant rats then.

Still.

These are the grasslands.

There is much to find. Some of it bigger than even these.

But first – first there are beetles. So many beetles. 

Shiny beetles, beetles that glow at night, big beetles, small beetles, singing beetles, beetles that live on other animals – the elves are unsure about those – but – no, these are not like the lice that Men carry, these are helpful – they eat such creatures for animals that have no knowledge of washing or combing.

Some beetles – well – they are certainly useful. They seem to – collect – and presumably eat – dung.

Not a discovery Taithel feels the need to share with the group.

He watches the beetles though, and it becomes clear that – actually – they do not themselves eat it – they dig a hole – and who knew beetles could dig so well – bury it, lay eggs in it – and then – the baby beetles – beetlings, perhaps? – eat it.

Who knew a beetle could be such a caring parent?

He is tempted to name them for this trait, and – and when he thinks on it – yes. They are, after all, red. Well, reddish. In the right light. 

Cararosta.

Whether Caradhil will be flattered by this, remains to be seen.

 

But all this is just – roadside happenings.

Always, always they are headed – to – to those creatures Taithel has dream of since – well – since the first time he heard the prince’s stories.

Since he saw one.

A whole family of them.

Ada, Naneth, and all the little oliphaunts.

But here – here they are not just one small, protected family.

When they finally see them for the first time – there is a plain below them – they have just crossed a hill – and on it – there is a herd – maybe more than one – there must be – a hundred oliphaunts.

Over the next season it becomes clear that this is an unusual occurrence. These are six herds, brought together by drought in the far south, forced north to find water, to find fresh food for their young, for the nursing females.

Brought together, a part of Taithel thinks, by the Valar, for – for elves to find, and see, and wonder at – and – never in his life has he been so sure of the love and care of the Valar. For who else could have made it so?

Even Ada could not have arranged this.

Seeing them like this – in their home – it is completely different to how Taithel ever thought it would be. They do not live in – in proper family groups.

Unlike the Ithilien oliphaunts, Ada oliphaunt doesn’t live with Naneth oliphaunt. Or the little oliphaunts.

The males go off and live alone.

Other animals do this, Taithel knows, but – for oliphaunts to do so – it seems – wrong.

Perhaps Taithel is still not quite as grown up as he would like to think.

All the other oliphaunts stay in big family groups. Aunts and sisters care for the baby oliphaunts as well as their Naneth. Even the babies are huge – taller than Taithel at the shoulder – and have appetites to match – even if it is only milk.

Their trunks are used like hands, they reach and grasp and carry things, they stroke – though not ears – and are affectionate – Taithel is as happy as he thinks he has ever been watching them.

Or – he would be – if Ada were here to show.

But then – Ada would probably be bored, or worried, or talking to people.

Ada doesn't always understand about animals.

Still.

It will be nice to be able to tell him they saw oliphaunts. 

Nothing hunts oliphaunts – well, what would? What could kill an oliphaunt?

Apart from a warrior prince.

But – he isn’t here.

So that's alright.

Actually, Taithel remembers, it is unfair to think like that. Legolas never showed any signs of wanting to hurt the Ithilien ones. He seemed rather to like them – even if only for the sake of teasing Lord Gimli.

But there are huge cats – they do not hunt the oliphaunts – but the elves are careful to keep a close watch out, especially at night – like all cats they hunt in the dark. And these cats – these cats are truly dangerous. Much, much more powerful than the spotted cats in south Ithilien, the males have fur on their necks, and the females hunt co-operatively – almost like elves – these are truly dangerous.

So are elves, of course.

Then they – one day – all the other elves say they had better move on. Taithel goes with them. 

No elf stays in the grasslands.

But as they move off, they find another new animal.

Almost worth leaving the oliphaunts for.

It is – like a hedgehog – only – bigger – a lot bigger, nearly as big as a hobbit,

“but I like it more than those rats,”  
“yes, much more – interesting,”  
“more edible,”  
“less – ratty.”

Sometimes, Taithel wonders how he came to be travelling with such a group.

Of course.

They are the only elves he has ever known – they are his group. And no elf can go alone.

He does speak out strongly against hunting the – not-quite-hedgehogs. They are too interesting.

They live in burrows, they gnaw at their food, they rattle their prickles – quills perhaps – they look rather like Ada’s pens – and the sound is – if not quite musical – pleasant enough that he wins them a stay of execution. When they see one run backwards into an inquisitive big-kitten, and they see the injuries the quills cause – the elves agree that Taithel was right.

These not-hedgehogs are unlikely to be as easy to catch and eat as their stay-at-home relatives.

 

 

So, they head back into the desert.

“Rodents again,” Tuluslas sighs, and tries to sound unimpressed – but Taithel knows now, this is merely pretence. Tuluslas has missed his little jumping friend in the decades since it died – he would be glad to acquire a new one.

Fortunately, it does not take long until – yes – there are indeed, rodents everywhere. And Tuluslas has his new friend – this time he manages to find a pregnant female – a whole colony of little friends.

The other elves sigh, and blame Taithel, and look at his mother, and keep their silence.

They praise the stars.

Taithel collects many friends.

It would have been nice to have an oliphaunt – but – they are rather hard to feed, so perhaps it is best not.

Perhaps.

Still, the really fluffy, warm, soft and cuddly rodents are very nice to curl up with, to have on ones shoulder, to allow – and perhaps it is odd, but it is nice – to allow to brush against one’s ear.

This part of the desert yields different lizards – lizards – not the barking ones that were so friendly, but ones with very short legs, ones that seem to burrow or swim through the sand. They are – so pretty, so many colours they come in, they have pointy faces, and almost feathery scales on their feet.

They have no ears though – and so the other elves remain dubious.

They are not popular with the rodents either, so Taithel only makes a friend when they stay for a few weeks at a waterhole near a lot of these pretty lizards. When they move on, the lizards are not like Taithel`s barky one and do not care to stay with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals :
> 
> Malagasy Giant Rat  
> Various Beetles  
> Dung Beetle  
> Olipahunts  
> Lions  
> Porcupines  
> Sandfish


	6. Chapter 6

As the mountains come into sight, mountains which will lead them out of the desert, though they are not quite sure what lies beyond, there comes into sight also something from out of childhood tales, a nightmare from the war to end wars.

It is a horned beast of Gorgoroth, a creature of Melkor.

But – actually – when one sees it living in herds, browsing through the scrublands – it does not seem so very bad after all.

“After all, even the oliphaunts were used by the forces of evil,” Taithel reminds everyone.

“More to the point, so were Men, and horses, and, once, even elves were deceived by Him. Though we shall not be again,” and the group agrees that these huge vegetarians are – harmless enough. So long as one stays well away from them.

“No taming these,” Taithel is told, “they are too big.”

Yes.

Even Ada would be unimpressed were he to return home with one of these. Smaller than the oliphaunts perhaps, but – more destructive in their eating, somehow.

And they have that horn on their heads.

It is worrying.

Of course, they also do not have large ears.

Elves are never truly at ease with animals that have not ears.

Taithel likes _any_ animal.

 

 

 

Up, up, up the mountains. 

Steep mountains.

Ithilien is not known for its mountains.

Taithel is not entirely sure he likes mountains .

But there are a lot of new animals. Big white hares – with lovely ears – and even Taithel cannot but wonder if a hare would be a nice toy for an elfling.

Not that Taithel has any intention of having an elfling. Ever. There are too many animals to play with – and elflings take all your time – or they should do. Neglecting an elfling is wrong.

Taithel is Caradhil’s son, such knowledge is so deeply learnt he does not even stop to consider it.

Anyway. To have an elfling would need – to marry. To love. 

Taithel does not consider that likely. After all, if Ada has not found one to love, why expect to?

Still.

The white hares are fast, and fluffy, and very lovely.

So are the bats they find – and so used are the elves to bats only appearing in tales as allies of the orcs, that it is a revelation to find that, actually, a bat is – just a mouse with wings. Fluffy, and fast, such talented predators, so silent in their movement, so full of a song that not-elves could not hear, so deadly. Such big ears.

So – right.

There are other things – like rodents, but without the long teeth – that have burrows in the rock crannies and stay indoors in the rain. But they eat any plants, even ones other animals avoid . 

Taithel likes them, but the elves don’t because they only have little ears. Tiny ears. But they have soft long fur. It is golden brown, and they have small damp noses – but they do not whiffle them, so they cannot be rodents. 

Surely.

They live together in big groups – mostly females – they are caring and protective of each other and the young, something about them, about their song, reminds him of the oliphaunts. 

They cannot be related.

They are too different.

Surely.

But – Taithel remembers Legolas speaking of Noldor, of Galadhrim, remembers Caradhil’s comments about other elves – about Sindar even.

Perhaps – perhaps it is not just elves who have such differences. If elves can look similar – to not-elves – but be so different to those who hear their song, then – maybe, maybe animals that look different but have a similar song – could they too be related?

But why would Eru make things that way?

The other elves would sigh, and shake their heads were he to say it. So he does not.

Perhaps Ada will know a reason, he thinks.

Old habits die hard, even for elves.

 

 

 

The mountains are high. The air is – different here. Not-elves do not come here . 

The elves sing for the joy of the light on snow, for the joy of seeing far – farther than usual, for no more climbing, and Taithel sings for the joy of new animals.

There are – large hairy – almost cows. Friendly, though they do not at first look likely to be, their shaggy coats concealing little eyes, their horns large and dangerous – but, when approached with care, and song, they can be persuaded to give milk, and, even, if an old comb is used with care the hair gained can be woven into warm blankets.

Not that elves need such things, of course.

But – Caradhil is not here, so – such softness can be pleasant. 

Sometimes, Taithel thinks, sometimes Ada has very high standards – too high – elves sometimes – like the comforts that they do not need.

At first, when he sees the almost-cows eating he thinks they eat rocks – but they are scraping lichen from the rocks. Elves have tried lichen – elves can live on lichen – elves can live on anything, pretty much – but – it is not enjoyable. At least, not to the elflings born in Ithilien, in times of plenty. To the elves who lived long in Mirkwood, who lived through the bad times – lichen is a normal food, but then – to those elves, spiders are a delicacy, much missed.

Taithel has always been relieved there are no giant spiders in Ithilien – they may be said to be good to eat, but he has always been dubious about that as well.

Then, as the elves begin to descend on the far side of the mountains, Taithel finds small, fat, not-rabbits. They are not rabbits because their ears are small – which loses them sympathy – and they have no visible tails.

They are fat, and tasty.

They have soft reddish grey fur – which makes lovely mittens and earwarmers. They have long whiskers, and the rodent-whiffly-nose again, and the rodent song.

Different, of course, but – still rodents.

Tuluslas is interested – although not enough to refrain from eating them, any more than Taithel. Elves need meat. Silvans do, anyway. 

The creatures are not very clever, and happily stay with the elves, enjoying the song, the titbits, and not seeming to notice how often one – or two – or more – will – disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals :
> 
> Mountain hare  
> Western Barbastelle  
> Rock Hyrax  
> Yaks  
> Pika


	7. Chapter 7

As they leave the foothills they find they are trudging through swamps.

Elves do not like swamps.

Taithel likes swamps. There are many animals in swamps.

Little deer with fangs and twitchy ears. They jump. And swim.

They bark.

It is very odd.

But, like all deer, they are delicious, and easy for elves to hunt. 

Almost all deer.

There are some which are – very big – almost as big as a young elk. They jump and jump, forwards and up, bouncing along. Unusually, they are not brown in colour, they are black, and grey.

And very hard to catch.

The elves ignore them in favour of the smaller deer and the rabbits. They are a strange type of rabbit, with smaller than usual ears, and they swim. Most rabbits do not swim – but these are proficient. Taithel likes them, the other elves find them odd because they are so solitary.

 

 

 

 

At last they come out of the swamps onto a flat scrubplain. There is a forest, but before it a mountain.

Taithel wishes to climb the mountain. He confides in his Naneth, and Meieriel talks to the other elves about it and – although they do not like the sound of more mountains – they agree that there is enough food here to last them for a few months, so they will wait for him.

It is hard work, climbing the mountain, but there are many animals for Taithel to see and so – the weeks pass as he stays a long way up – not quite the top – in a pine forest with grass and herbs around the trees in little rings.

There are rabbits. They have whiffly noses, of course, but they do not have tails and they have only small ears. Like the not-quite-rabbits on the other mountains, but their ears are bigger, and their back legs are longer.

He watches and thinks.

Thinks about different sorts of rabbits in different places.

Different deer in different places.

Rabbits and deer which are, now he considers, better suited to the place they live than the usual type would be.

And beetles. 

So many different beetles.

Different, all of them different, but still beetles, and each one – fits.

Fits where it lives better than any other beetle would.

Maybe not perfectly – maybe there are still things that could be more – what is the word – adapted.

And for the first time he makes the next connection, reaches out for the next branch in his head.

Maybe – maybe if he were to come back – in a few decades time – perhaps more – when he is as old as Ada, say – maybe the beetles will be even better suited, the deer a little more comfortable, maybe – maybe the animals change.

Slowly.

Gradually.

Fitting in.

How, though?

How could that happen?

He watches the rabbits play, and sniff, and encourage their young to explore their world – and he thinks.

They are friendly, and Taithel finds the herbs that they eat are good for elves as well. He takes some seeds in a little bag he made from one of the oldest rabbits, who – died – when he first got here.

As well as rabbits, there are mice, which are much shyer. They are a light greyish-brown in colour and they are tameable – once they understand that Taithel does not wish to harm them. One day he climbs to the top of the mountain and sees – liquid rock inside it, and ash on the sides of the crater.

Taithel walks back down to his friends the rabbits, and ponders on this.

 

 

 

Eventually, he goes back to the elves, and shows them some of the dried herbs he has brought back. The elves agree with his opinion that they are healthy for elves. Meieriel says he is a clever boy, and praises him, and strokes his ears.

Into the forest. It is not a normal forest – it is not like Ithilien, which is hardly a forest at all, nor is it like Eryn Lasgalen. Instead of black or red or even grey squirrels, there are huge brown squirrels. Taithel likes them – they are shy, but after a little they become friendly.

Meieriel does not truly approve of squirrels, or rather, she does not truly approve of elves liking squirrels.

Too many comments from lord Gimli, over the years, comparing elves to squirrels, not entirely favourably – and not entirely without truth.

Taithel does not care. He soon makes a friend, who will sit on his shoulder and eat fruit and nuts from his hand.

Tuluslas also likes squirrels and makes a friend.

Soon there are many little squirrelings running about the elves, jumping from shoulder to shoulder.

The elves sigh, and praise the beauty of trees, and starlight.

The squirrels seem not to mind the singing.

Sadly.

The first squirrel finds something, and comes to tell Taithel all about it. Well, that is one way of putting it.

It clings to him in panic, and chatters wildly.

The elves sigh and wonder what now.

Taithel goes to see the cause of all this. 

High in a tree is a large black – shape. At first it seems to be a furry fungus – it does not move, or respond, or make a noise.

Taithel is about to climb down, when – it begins to snore. 

The elves look at the creature in despair.

“It is a cushion,” one says, “Taithel-penneth-nin, it is a furry cushion which snores. Even you – surely – even you cannot find it interesting or worthy of study. Surely.”

But Taithel feels all animals must tell something, must have something which elves can learn from.

“Look,” he says, quietly, not to the scornful elf, but to Tuluslas alone, Tuluslas who is prepared to put up with a lot for Taithel, his friend, “look, its tail is curled around the branch like an arm. We have never seen an animal that does that – nor have I heard of one such. It is – different. Maybe even unique. How – how can they say it is not interesting? Let us look – Tuluslas – let us watch it, see when it moves, what it eats, whether it has friends – whether it will make friends with us? Please Tuluslas?”

Tuluslas supposes it is not dangerous, and – well, there are a lot of less prepossessing animals. This one – would at least make a comfortable pet.

It does. It is soon affectionate, and although heavy, it will, occasionally, consent to swim and bring fish to them.

Indeed, there are less pleasant animals.

Besides, it is no fool.

It bites the scornful elf.

 

 

 

Tuluslas finds something interesting. It is a huge beetle with three spiky horns upon its head and a bluish-black shell. Taithel is fascinated as usual. He lets it crawl over his hand and looks carefully at its head. It is different from other beetles he saw earlier. 

He wonders why it is different. 

Tuluslas does not even understand the question. It is a beetle, some beetles are one way, some another. As well ask why is the sky blue, the grass green, the music of trees comforting.

Because Eru wills it so.

Taithel sighs, and nods, and agrees.

And inside, he wonders what answer Meieriel or Tegylwen would give.

Or Caradhil.

 

 

 

 

Now his sleepy pet, in one of its rare active moments, has found a patch of bark that seems to interest it. When Taithel looks closer, he sees it is not a patch of bark at all but a furry animal camouflaged against it. This animal has large flaps of skin between its arms and legs, and its tail as well. 

Later, he sees these animals gliding from tree to tree, using the membranes of skin as ‘wings’. Taithel smiles and wonders why it does not just have wings.

There are other gliding animals as well. Taithel sees a snake and also two lizards that can glide between the trees. He wonders why these do not have wings as well. Eru would have seen they wanted to fly, why are they not just like the bats? 

Why?

And then – but if they once – once – were not like this – were ordinary snakes or lizards or – or not-quite-squirrels – then how could they grow whole new wings?

Unless, of course, Eru willed it.

Only it seems he did not.

Almost as though Eru – Eru did not plan every creature. Simply – began it – and then – watched.

Is that possible?

Taithel is not sure enough of the stories, not having had a very traditional upbringing.

Anyway.

One of the lizards looked a little like a dragon but – he called out to it and it could not answer back – it was not breathing fire and – its song was different. 

They probably just look the same because Morgoth copied his dragons from these lizards.

Of course, Morgoth gave them wings as well as legs.

Funny, that.

 

 

 

Taithel wanders off a little way next day. He finds a stripey cat – a little like the ones on the plains, but stripey and slightly bigger. It is also eating a deer, but slowly and sleepily. Soon it lies down near its kill and starts to snore, a little like his pet wrapped around his shoulders now. Its tail twitches and it stirs in its sleep.

Taithel tiptoes back to the rest of the elves and leaves the stripey cat in peace.

It has very large teeth.

But it is still recognisably a big – cat.

 

 

 

 

Soon Taithel finds another surprising beetle. Its head is in the normal place for a beetle – well, for any creature really – but, it has a huge horn growing out from its back. And another one from its nose, forming a gigantic pincer.

Gigantic for a beetle, that is.

There are many sorts of beetles in this forest. More beetles than he ever imagined Eru could have bothered to create.

It seems a waste of effort, really.

Which goes back to his earlier thoughts.

So many beetles.

Some beetles are red, some are green, some have long necks – exceptionally long – some are blue, some are black and white – and huge. Bigger than any beetle should be.

Big enough to eat baby birds and mice.

It occurs to Taithel to wonder what the beetles in the Old Forest were like. He asks, but none of the elves can tell him – they do not pay attention to such things. Beetles are not – not even in the Old Forest – dangerous, you cannot eat them, they do not have a particularly pleasing song – and so – elves do not notice them much.

Taithel is tempted to tell himself that Ada would know.

But he knows it is a lie. Ada cares for beetles no more than any other elf.

Ada would find out though.

Ada is good like that.

Still.

There are a lot of beetles here. All different, all fitting in together, living together – all with their own ways, all – perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animals :
> 
> Muntjac  
> Nilgai  
> Marsh rabbit  
> Volcano rabbit  
> Mexican volcano mice  
> Giant squirrels  
> Binturong  
> Rhinoceros Beetle  
> Colugo  
> Golden Tree Snake  
> Flying Gecko  
> Flying Lizard  
> Tiger


	8. Chapter 8

Once they have crossed a river – a big river – they begin to leave the cover of the forest for an open grassy plain.

The elves are a bit – nervous – about that. They like a forest when they do not know the country; they like to have somewhere safe to hide, trees to listen to, to climb in.

Out here, in the open – they feel exposed.

There are deer though – which is nice.

They are small, spotty, thin, and very nervous – not of elves, nothing is nervous of elves – but – they seem – nervous of anything, starting at any unusual sound. Their eyes are big and staring, they do not seem happy creatures.

Good to eat though.

 

 

 

They journey on, and always there are more animals, more to see. Always Taithel is drawn to ask the same questions, over and over, why – why are there so many, so similar, and yet so different – why does each creature fit so well into its surroundings?

Why do the other elves not care?

How can they not see how interesting this is, how exciting, how important this could be for what it tells them of the Valar, of the way the world is?

One day – and it is a season long remembered by Taithel – they meet another group of elves.

Not Avari, not those strange elves of whom they have heard tell, no, these are Silvans, like to themselves, but – somehow – strangely different.

More different even than those they met before.

Their song is strange, yet hauntingly familiar.

Time must be spent in talking, in exchanging news and reassurances of peace – time which Taithel resents, wasted as it seems to him.

Time which drags on, and on.

Then Meieriel comes to him, and asks him if he will walk apart from the others a while with her.

Taithel is no fool – his nose twitches with unease, even as he consents.

“Ion-nin,” she begins, when once they are alone, “ion-nin, I know you will not like what I am going to say, but I beg you, listen and try to understand. Your Ada and I – you know it was not – was never – could never be a love match. He and I – you know – we had despaired, each of us, of meeting the elf for whom we were meant – and yet we wanted you and Tegylwen so much – so very much – and we have been so joyous – nothing would I change of that.”

She pauses, and he looks at her – because how else can he know what she wants him to say?

Not that he does know, even then.

He waits.

Meieriel swallows, this is more difficult than she had expected – a deep-buried part, a superstitious part, wonders if this is the punishment – this is why elves do not act so – this fear of hurting one’s child – is that why elves wait for love?

Too late now.

Besides, surely even Taithel has noticed how things are with Elegathol?

Suddenly she finds she is grateful that Taithel is no longer that small elfling, so loving, so affectionate, so easily hurt. He has his own interests, his own life now – he is not dependent on her – if he wishes to return, there is nothing to stop him.

Tuluslas will doubtless go with him.

For a moment longer she waits, but no, it seems that Taithel will not begin this, Taithel, observant of many things as he is, has not seen how it is, and she must explain.

“I have found my elf,” she begins, “we will be married – vowed – combing – all of it, any of it – however you chose to think of it, say it. I – ion-nin, I do not know that I would ever have returned, even had I not met him. Your Ada is – a difficult elf not to be eclipsed by – difficult not to let him become the centre of my life still – and I do not – did not – want that,” she does not mention that there was a time, many, many years ago, when she had wondered if she did, if they did, if it would be love between them. To say that now would not be helpful – and besides, she and Caradhil spoke of it, when the elflings were small, when the joy of being a family made them remember that time years earlier – and they knew, both of them – that it was not love. Friendship, yes, always, and if there were ever any danger, they would each fight to the last breath for the other – but more than that – no. Were Caradhil to die, she would not lie down to follow – and he would not for her.

Indeed, Meieriel does not believe Caradhil has that in him for any, save their children, perhaps.

Taithel thinks about this.

“I like him,” he says, slowly, and that is better than she hoped, “but – this is not my home, Naneth. I – will you come to Ithilien, sometimes? Or write? Because I will be going home, one of these days. When I have seen enough animals, when I have – well, perhaps – if I were to marry – I should want to be near Ada,” he realises what he has said, “sorry. But I would.”

She is not surprised.

“Of course I will write,” she says, “or come back – it is not so very much out of the usual path of their journeys. But there are so many places still to see, so many trees, so many – so many wounds in the earth to heal.”

Taithel nods.

He understands the bit about seeing trees – that is how it is with animals for him – and slowly he remembers what he should do.

He turns and reaches out, touches ears, 

“Be happy, Naneth,” he says, and there is nothing he would want more for her.

 

 

 

Patiently, Taithel waits until all is done, until the group has decided who will stay with these new Silvans and who will travel on, journey homewards. 

Slowly, but inexorably homewards.

Tuluslas was not the only elf surprised by Taithel’s choice, though perhaps the most honest when he voiced it,

“You will not stay here – travel on with your mother and her elves?” and he wrinkled his nose as their eyes met, “they are, or soon will be, her elves. You know this. So – why not stay? Marry among them, or not, as time will tell – journey on further east one day – there are more lands, more creatures. I thought you had a love of wandering – what draws you back with those of us who find we are tired of this life?”

And Taithel had to think how to express it,

“Here,” he began slowly, “among these elves, always I would be an unknown, always I would be striving to explain myself. I could keep learning, keep thinking – yes – but – I find I too am ready to go home.”

All know me in Ithilien – all know I am the child of Caradhil, the brother of Tegylwen – and while there have been years I hated that, longed only for obscurity, now I find – I miss that sense of place, of being known. But to say any of that would sound disloyal to his mother – and that he will not do. Instead he adds,

“Besides, I have a book to write.”

And Tuluslas laughs.


	9. Chapter 9

Once more he has wandered off, away from the group, taking his own way, seeing what he can find, watching, looking.

These – these are most unlike other lizards he has seen before. They seem – perhaps – they are young – there are still some shards of eggshell around them. No, Taithel corrects himself, not shards. Shards would be for a sharp bird-like egg. These eggs seem to have been made of – of some – substance that is flexible, that springs back into shape, that is – he has not the words for it. Odd. They do not like him looking at them, touching the egg-pieces, not at first, he has to sing quietly to them for some time before they calm enough that he can pick one up, admire its perfect teeth – so many of them – its claws, its shape. He runs his hands over it, stroking it, feeling the smoothness of its knobbly skin, the colours, green and brown, the huge eyes set so high on its head, the nostrils that shut between breaths, and he notes now how its ear-holes also are able to close – how odd, he thinks, as he always thinks, to not have proper ears, how lonesome – and he wonders if this is some kind of water-lizard. Strange. Lizards always seem so fond of the sun, so needy of heat the way they like to bask, almost as an elf needs song, to think of them swimming is peculiar. Yet – this one does seem to be made to do so. Or, he corrects himself, if not made to, then it has learnt to, changed itself to be able to swim better. 

No. 

Looking at it again, he tries to keep rigorously to his theory, it cannot have changed itself. All these have the same appearance – all are young. So – so perhaps – if Naneth and Ada lizard both had some of these traits – they might – if they bred – have young which were more so. 

Yes.

That is how to think it.

Like the horses of Rohan.

Breeding for useful skills, or looks.

It is very pretty. He wonders if it would make a good pet – it is so unusual. And now he has sung a bit, it seems happy enough in his arms. 

Chirping, but not in distress.

It does not seem in any hurry to get back into the mud with its siblings. They are chirping too, and they seem more worried – whether for this one, or about something else, he does not know. He tries to reassure them also, but perhaps they are hungry.

“Is that it, penneth?” he asks, “are you hungry? What do you eat, I wonder? Not plants, with those teeth. Fish perhaps? Shall we go and catch you a fish? Would you like that? Would you like to come with Taithel-ada and find a fish?” his hands move over the creature’s back, almost as though he is combing it, and it is an odd feeling, no hair, yet different to any of the lizards, somehow, rougher – yet it is pleasant. And when it looks up with such big eyes, Taithel for the first time in his life begins to understand his father’s devotion to his prince. 

He stands, ready to carry it away, and it still seems happy. There is a river close by – this mud pool is in fact a digging to the side of it – and Taithel is so engrossed in his discovery that he does not stop to wonder about the size of lizard that could dig out this pool or lay so many, so large, eggs – a river that is bound to have fish. 

He stands and turns to walk towards the river, and – and finds himself looking at an elf he had no idea was near him.

An elf he does not know.

An elf who – who does not look – right.

An elf who is holding a very vicious knife. Very close.

Without willing it, Taithel steps back, holding the little lizard to him, protecting it, and the chirping from around his feet becomes louder and more distressed – but he does not notice.

“Mpâ! Litâ râukilun!” the elf says.

Taithel swallows, trying to remember words that might help.

“Mae govannen,” he tries, and sees blankness, so, “Sindarin? Silvan? Westron? I – I mean no harm. Please. This little one is hungry, I think,” speaking now in a mixture of all three languages, repeating himself, he gestures at the lizard with one hand to show his meaning, even as he cradles it safe against him, “I was going to find a fish.” The face staring at him is still not responding, and for the first time he understands what the Men of Ithilien mean when they say elves are impassive, as he scrapes desperately through the words he has learnt – slowly – painfully – from Elegathol, for just this eventuality, and realising this is not just a different form, this is not merely a variation on the languages he knows. These words she speaks are from some completely new – new to him – language. And slowly, slowly, he understands. 

This is a language from the years before the elves were sundered. 

Avarin.

And he – he must try to learn, to speak, if there is to be any hope of understanding between them.

Elves are supposed to learn languages fast, he remembers, as this one continues to menace him, and he wonders if he has the words wrong, or if he is not making the sounds he hears correctly – but he never has. For years he stumbled over even the simplest words and forms in his own tongue, and in Westron – in Westron he continued to sound like a young child until he was almost twenty. His sister teased him mercilessly for it, he remembers, and his mother – sighed, and shrugged, saying he would speak properly when he cared to try. His father was endlessly patient with him, and he wonders why he thinks of this now, now when an unknown elf is pointing a knife at him, and gesturing, and – and at first he does not understand what she wants, and she is cross, and – and then he begins to see her meaning, and he is sad, but – but perhaps it is as well to do her bidding for now, persuade her later. A confrontation is rarely the easiest way to win a victory, he remembers his father telling him, years ago, and for a moment he remembers his father dealing with angry dwarves, with angry Men, and he summons up everything he can recall of his manner.

“Very well,” he says, calmly, politely, bowing a little, “my lady, I do as you ask, of course, and I place the little one – see, I place him on the ground – yes? Here? No. Here then? Yes, here. Near the pool, near his friends. Yes. I do as you ask, and now – now I show you my hands, see, I have no weapons, yes, I follow you, yes, and now – now – will you touch hands with me, touch ears? My lady?”

It is, he supposes, all in the tone, for certainly she does not understand his words any more than he understood hers, but – she smiles a little, and he follows her from the pool, both of them disappearing silently into the bushes just a few moments before the mother crocodile returns to her hatchlings’ cheeping.

Which, since she is easily able to take down a warrior, let alone an unprepared elf, is a good thing, for she is always hungry, and a most caring and devoted parent.

 

 

 

Taithel follows this new elf, although he is tempted to wander away, to head for his own group – but – but something stops him. Afterwards he is never sure what, never able to describe, either to himself or to those who ask him, what it is that tells him no, follow, stay with her. 

“Your heart, perhaps, ion-nin?” Caradhil will suggest, one day, when he is trying to speak of it, but,

“No. At least, Ada, not in the way you always said love would be. Not a sudden knowing, an understanding, a blossoming of devotion – not like you said. Just – just a feeling that this was where I should be. Is that love? That is not how you told us it would be.” And Taithel will look helplessly at his father, looking for answers, even as, for the first time he can ever remember, his father will shrug, equally helpless, and be unable to meet his eyes as he says,

“But what do I know? I only ever loved you and your sister. Why you would believe my words describing love, I do not know.”

That is all in the future though, and for now, for now, Taithel follows this elf, telling himself that she is clearly at home in these glades, he cannot hide from her, so why make an enemy? After a time, he is an elf, he may be an elf out of his forest, but he is still a Silvan, he realises they have come in a large half-circle, and even as he does, she stops, and holds his arm, and gestures to climb. From the tree, she gestures again, and he looks where she points, and – and oh they are beautiful, the most beautiful creatures he has seen – almost – and so large – and – oh that such lizards should exist and he never have known.

“But –“ he speaks quietly, for one never knows whether such creatures have good hearing, or whether they are like other prey and easy to scare into a stampede, “but these are like my little friend. Why – why did you make me leave him? Do they care so for their young? Would his parents have been sad? He would have been a kingly gift for my father – “ he stops, recognising his own lie – his father would, doubtless, have smiled, and pretended pleasure as he always has at any gift, but – no. Such a creature would have been a gift for Taithel, and Taithel alone, and they both would have known it. The tale will be enough for Caradhil – the tale, and his son returned to tell it.

Even as he reflects so, the lizards become very still. Almost – if it were possible – one would say they are more still than the elves watching them. Those in the water slide along easily, almost concealed, those on land somehow –and it is almost like watching elves evade the sight of mortals – somehow become nothing more than logs at rest. A number of deer approach, and Taithel remembers that most – perhaps all – lizards are predators, even if they are also prey.

The deer are wary, looking around them as they come down to drink, yet – they see nothing wrong. As the first two lower their heads to the water – all is quiet. They drink, and others join them. 

Only when there are many there, many drinking, then, then the water erupts, as one after another the crocodiles surge upwards, catching each a deer by the neck, and dragging them swiftly into the depths.

The water boils, as the deer are – are held under, thrashing, until they are drowned.

Every one that was taken.

Taithel looks at the elf he sits beside, and she raises her brows at him, in the age-old elven gesture of superiority. He nods, understanding, and, for he is his father’s son, speaks,

“You are right. Without your words – I would not be here, I think. My life is yours,” and he offers the hilt of his dagger. 

It is not a gesture she knows, she is puzzled, then begins to offer hers in return. He shakes his head, and still offering his, he kisses her hand, offering service, offering fealty. He points to the lizards, to himself, to her, and then to the daggers, and she seems to understand.

They sit a while longer, watching the feast, then slip down their tree and away, Taithel still following without question. The light grows late, and he supposes he should return to his group but – but he does not wish to. She leads him through the trees, and he wonders if they are to return to her family – but it seems not.

The tree she swings up into is empty of all others, but it shows signs of occupation – but – if it were possible to think so – occupation by one elf alone. He wishes he could ask, but cannot think of a way. She sits and stretches and he does likewise, glad to be on a flet – or something very like one – there are, he supposes, only so many ways you can build a platform in a tree. It feels homelike.

She reaches into the bag she has carried, and brings out a waterfowl – begins to pluck it. Taithel looks ruefully at his own bag – there is nothing much there – no, he searches again, and yes, there are some berries he gathered yesterday –not much, but perhaps acceptable. He offers them, and yes, it seems they are welcome. When once the duck is plucked, she pulls out a knife – but again, here he can help – for though sharp and menacing, her blade is, he sees, crudely made. Elf-made, but not elves with skill, he thinks, more like to Men’s work than dwarves. He shows his, bright, clean, well-kept and made with all the skill of dwarves of Erebor and Aglarond. She touches it carefully, and then – hands the duck to him to gut and joint.

Of course, there is no question of cooking it. That is something he will have to accept – elves in these parts do not cook their meat.

At first, it turns the stomach to think of eating it so, but – one can get used to such things. Taithel, son of his parents, is adaptable, and not one to offend against custom nor show his own doubt.

When they have eaten, it seems his new friend would sleep, but – there are some customs Taithel will not forsake. He shows his comb, and offers it. She looks at him a little strangely, but – smiles, and – turns that he may comb her.

And – in many ways, Taithel is not like his father, but in this – in this he has inherited some skill. She leans into his hands, and – all the words they have not between them seem unneeded as elven song and elven combs take their place.

 

 

 

Days pass.

Is this – Taithel is not sure what this is.

It is – friendly.

More than friendly.

Comforting?

No.

Better than that.

Right.

It is right.

Their songs are in harmony.

Is that – does that mean anything?

They seem to be learning each other’s language faster than he would have thought.

No.

They seem to be making their own language, something between those they speak, something only for them.

It is a good feeling.

And combing – combing just the two of them – combing and singing – and being together – she shows him her world, and he – he finds ways to show his.

He shows her the books, his notebooks that before he has only shown to Tuluslas and to Meieriel.

Meieriel was interested, but not fascinated.

Tuluslas – Tuluslas was afraid. Afraid of the conclusions to which Taithel is drawn, the speculations, the thoughts on the nature of Eru, the absence of the controlling hand of the Valar in everything.

Râmpanyâ – Râmpanyâ is interested. 

Somehow, even with so few words, Taithel manages to explain, and she – she has other examples – fish – birds – creatures she knows from here, and from the places she has travelled – creatures that have changed during her life.

Become more – adapted.

Taithel realises, vaguely, that this must mean she is older than he – but what does that matter?

They are elves.

They have all the time in the world.

 

 

 

There are moments when Râmpanyâ thinks it may indeed take all the time in the world before this strange new elf – this elf whose words she does not understand, yet whose song she knows as intimately as she knows her own – before he reaches for her in the way she reaches for him.

But Taithel, despite his youth, is no fool.

In one way at least, he is the son of Caradhil – he knows when someone is – interested in his comb. And unlike Caradhil, he knows of more than combing – he has not watched animals all these years for nothing – and unlike Caradhil, he is ready – very ready indeed – to love.

He waits only for enough shared language to speak the vows that should be spoken.

 

 

 

 

In love, and vowed, and as single-minded as only an elf can be, it is many months before Taithel remembers his group – those who were once his group.

When he does, he writes, and that is something so new to Râmpanyâ that the explaining of a letter, of words – apparently in the notebooks all she really noticed was the pictures, assuming the words were simply decorations – words that Taithel can write and another read – speaking to another even though they are not present – that seems quite a wonder to her. 

It is unusual – it is new – for anyone to look at Taithel like that. 

He likes it.

He does not feel it is deserved – certainly not from this elf, this elf who has, he now understands, saved his life already many times. This elf who is so much faster, more competent with knife and bow, this elf who knows more of the animals and world around her than he – how can he deserve her praise?

Then she looks at him, and smiles, and it is not praise, not wonder, but – love. And all thoughts of doubt leave him.

The letter written, he does not stay to speak with Tuluslas for any length of time – not for more than a few moments will he leave his love – and she is not one for meeting strange groups of elves.

One day, she says, one day, perhaps, they will journey to meet her kin. When Taithel has learnt more of their tongue, their ways – and Taithel laughs, knowing, as she does, that he learns slowly.

One day, she says, one day, perhaps, they will journey to meet his mother – or even, maybe, his father and sister among their strange trees.

Taithel laughs, not caring that this one day is as like to be far off as the other. The idea of living among such trees, in a land so set about with mortal realms seems to Râmpanyâ peculiar. She cannot imagine it, cannot believe it to be safe, to be elven – she is reluctant to even consider going there.

In truth, so is Taithel.

What need for other elves?

He is no longer Taithel, son of Meieriel, no longer son of Caradhil, no longer brother to Tegylwen.

He is Tiktû, husband and beloved of Râmpanyâ.

Sometime, one day, when they are ready, there will be elflings – but for now, for now it is enough to simply be the two of them, travelling and journeying in wonder at the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avarin
> 
> We (or more accurately Palanotar) created a fragmentary constructed language descended from primitive Eldarin, which we called Pinti. Tolkien had six Avarin languages, all with one word meaning the same thing, the name of the language analogous to Quendi meaning people. We imagined one of them, Penni, developing into Pinti.
> 
> Mpâ - stop  
> Litâ râukilun - set free the crocodile (river-lion)  
> Râmpanyâ - Wild-beauty  
> Tiktû - Writer, one who can write


End file.
